Season 9, Week 15, “Chekhov’s Gun”

INSPIRATION

The life of a writer is rarely easy, but it was unusually hard for Jonathan (“Jack”) Monroe. Sometimes it seemed like he led two lives. At work, he was Jonathan Monroe, a clerk for Universal Insurance, the straightest of arrows, but at home, in front of his computer, he became Jack Monroe, author of crime thrillers. More accurately, it was “would-be” author, since Jack’s genius had yet to be recognized by any publishing company.

Now, it was a typical Saturday night. That afternoon, the postman had delivered another rejection letter for Jack Monroe: “If you send any more manuscripts, our lawyer will renew the restraining order.” It was for The End of Luck, a novel concluding with the police accidentally killing the hero of Jack’s unpublished “Joe Luck, P.I.” series. The previous books were Luck Rolls the Dice [police rescue Joe when he stumbles into a killer in Las Vegas] and Luck Runs Out [police rescue Joe after he stops at a serial killer’s gas station].

At first, Jonathan read the letter with his usual resignation and sat down at his computer, but the Jack Monroe in him was unable to write. Instead, he gave in to his growing frustration and went out for some cheap booze, served by an even cheaper blonde at a nearby watering hole. Too many drinks later, Jack lost track of time but he somehow managed to make it home when the bar closed.

Jack finally woke up around noon on Sunday, his head pounding. “Time to get back to work,” he thought, despite his Category 3 hangover. He poured a little whiskey in his coffee -- “hair of the dog that bit me” -- and turned on the laptop to begin.

Jack was working on the first book in a new series about a tough ex-cop trying to clear his name after being fired for a crime he didn’t commit. There was a hot ex-wife who still loved him and a sidekick with psychic powers – or maybe the ex-wife could be the psychic, since Jack hadn’t decided much of anything. Three weeks of writing had produced only a hard-won opening:

For the last time, Honcho pulled out of the precinct’s parking lot, tires squealing, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat, and his .45 on his lap. “Never again,” he muttered. The car was a worn-out Crown Vic appropriated from the motor pool, rusty, but baby, it could still move. Honcho blew past a shoe store having a sale on his way to Cindy’s house for a little advice and a lot of loving. Standing at her front door, Honcho thought about what had brought him back to her yet again. Cindy opened the door, dropped her robe, and then nothing else mattered.

“I wonder what Jonathan will think?”

Jonathan was Jack’s harshest critic; Jack wrote but it was Jonathan who edited. Even though Jonathan never understood Jack’s brilliance, Jack needed Jonathan’s help.

“You’ve done it again, Jack!” said Jonathan.

Jack started to smile – maybe Jonathan was finally getting it.

“Not like that -- you’ve broken every rule for writing known to man!”

This always crushed Jack. He hated The Rules, dreading the edits that invariably followed and killed the writer in him, one discouraging change at a time.

Jonathan was grim – “First off, if you can’t imagine yourself saying it, you probably shouldn’t write it, and try harder to avoid clichés. We’ve been through this before.”

The changes struck hard and heavy:

For the last time, Honcho pulled out of the precinct’s parking lot, tires squealing, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat, and his .45 on his lap. “Never again,” he muttered. The car was a worn-out Crown Vic appropriated from the motor pool, rusty, but baby, it could still move. Honcho blew past a shoe store having a sale on his way to Cindy’s house for a little advice and a lot of loving. Standing at her front door, Honcho thought about what had brought him back to her yet again. Cindy opened the door, dropped her robe, and then nothing else mattered.

“You’ve ruined it!” protested Jack. “It doesn’t even make sense.”

“You fix it -- that’s your job. I’m only telling you what’s wrong. Besides, this is just the beginning. You also need to leave out the parts that readers skip anyway, and take out everything that isn’t necessary. I don’t know why you always leave this work for me.”

Jack’s hands trembled as he started to sweat. “My hangover’s worse – let’s have a drink and stop this nonsense. I don’t feel well.” Jack knew that Jonathan didn’t drink, but that didn’t stop him from hoping.

For the last time, Honcho pulled out of the precinct’s parking lot, tires squealing, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat, and his .45 on his lap. “Never again,” he muttered. The car was a worn-out Crown Vic appropriated from the motor pool, rusty, but baby, it could still move. Honcho blew past a shoe store having a sale on his way to Cindy’s house for a little advice and a lot of loving. Standing at her front door, Honcho thought about what had brought him back to her yet again. Cindy opened the door, dropped her robe, and then nothing else mattered.

“The last step is facing reality -- just a few more edits and you’ll thank me.”

Jack looked away; he didn’t want reality, only a drink. He didn’t need to see the screen to remember it all: the booze and him speeding in that old car with no seatbelts . . . their baby in the back seat, and then the darkness, the broken glass and all the blood. That tiny, tiny coffin.

For the last time, Honcho pulled out of the precinct’s parking lot, tires squealing, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat, and his .45 on his lap. “Never again,” he muttered. The car was a worn-out Crown Vic appropriated from the motor pool, rusty, but baby, it could still move. Honcho blew past a shoe store having a sale on his way to Cindy’s house for a little advice and a lot of loving. Standing at her front door, Honcho thought about what had brought him back to her yet again. Cindy opened the door, dropped her robe, and then nothing else mattered.

“LOOK AT THE SCREEN . . . it’s all there . . . just rearrange the words!”

Slumping over, Jack held his head in his hands, not even trying to hold back his tears. He relived the whole thing again and again, the memories as vivid as ever. There was no escape. No drinking to forget, no writing to forget, and no forgiveness, just six little words burning on the computer screen.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

When Jack finally opened his eyes, there were two objects on his desk, courtesy of Jonathan: a glass of whiskey and a revolver. “It’s one or the other. No mercy -- you need to end this once and for all.” Jonathan was right, of course; these were his only choices.

“The long death or the short?” Jack’s voice became stronger as he fingered the gun, caressing the glass with his other hand. Hemingway had killed himself, and so had Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and countless other writers, good and bad. “But the whiskey . . . .”

“You’re weak – you’ve always been weak, and your weakness killed your baby. Choose now!” Jonathan’s commanding voice startled Jack.

“You need me to decide? You've got it. This is my choice.” Jack savored his drink, picked up the gun, aimed carefully, and shot the computer, the bullet shattering the screen, wiping out its message and freeing him.

Jonathan was exhausted, but he felt whole again. The only thing he wanted was lots of sleep. The rest could wait until Monday.

He woke to a gray Monday morning, as so many of them were. It had been yet another rough weekend, this one harder than most. Jonathan picked up a broom and started sweeping. “Cleaning up Jack’s mess again,” he sighed, “I always let him off too easy.”

The room was spotless. “I’d better get to work,” Jonathan thought, putting away the broom before pulling another laptop from the stack in the closet and plugging it in before heading to the office.

The next weekend would be there before he knew it.

* * * * *

I am grateful to my wife, halfshellvenus, for beta-reading this entry, for her html wizardry, and for being my inspiration in all things, without the drama. No one needs guns and shot-up computers, although it might be fun to try.

Sources.

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn” is credited to Ernest Hemingway.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/For_sale:_baby_shoes,_never_worn

Jonathan’s Rules of Writing:

Chekhov’s gun: “. . . a dramatic principle that requires every element in a narrative be necessary and irreplaceable and that everything else be removed.”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chekhov's_gun

Elmore Leonard: “Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.”
http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/304

Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd: “If you can't imagine yourself saying something aloud, then you probably shouldn't write it.”
http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/886

Margaret Atwood: “You most likely need a thesaurus, a rudimentary grammar book, and a grip on reality.”
http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/915

George Orwell: “Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.”
http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/300